


The Case of the Heart in Armor

by snowbellewells



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-02-13 06:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21490186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowbellewells/pseuds/snowbellewells
Summary: Killian “Holmes” Jones is rarely surprised or shocked anymore, but that all changes when he meets one very stubborn - and very beautiful - pickpocket, and trouble brews in the distance, hidden by the London fog…
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Emma Swan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Courtorderedcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Courtorderedcake/gifts).

> Written for the CS Role Reversal Event on Tumblr (October 2019)   
Fully inspired by the art of @courtorderedcake on Tumblr as well - really a breathtaking piece and it totally got the creative juices flowing! I am absolutely in her debt for giving the spark to a story I am enjoying so much! :)

_ Part One _

Almost instantaneously, Killian “Holmes” Jones knew something had happened. There was very little that escaped his notice - ever - and the fact that someone had just nicked the gold pocketwatch he always wore was immediately evident, despite their having one of the lightest touches he had experienced in his time walking the seedier London streets. An expectant hush lingered in the air, as if his very surroundings waited to see how he would proceed, and if he could pinpoint just who had divested him of his valuable.

At first glance, the dingey, fog-shrouded and mostly deserted street looked the same as it ever did. There were distant sounds of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves clopping along the cobblestones a street over, the echo of vendors crying their wares, and the distant puff of trains pulling in and out of the station at Marylebone, but in the street where Jones stood, not far from his favored pub, where he was to meet Graham Watson and his older brother, once Liam had left his cushy government office for the night, to share some dinner, things were comparatively calm and still.

That was, until a flash of golden brightness caught his eye, winking from the drab surroundings of brown and grey. The flower cart girl just behind and to his left had not caught his attention when he passed, had not seemed of any particular interest. Even now that the arresting color of her blonde tresses were peeking out of the rather flat, bedraggled hat atop them, she seemed to be busy at her own work, not noticing him at all. And yet, there was something almost too casual about her stance - a marked avoidance of his gaze, as if she were carefully watching him without wishing to seem so. Perhaps some movement had tipped him off unconsciously, but whatever the reason, Killian sensed she was his culprit. Or, if not, she had at least seen something she would rather not share.

Striding purposefully toward her cart of flowers for sale, Killian’s mouth formed a stern line as he prepared to confront the slip of a woman for her thievery. She was still concertedly paying him no mind, though he was certain that she tracked his path warily from the corner of her sparkling jade eyes.

Opening her mouth, she called out the flowers she had on offer along with their prices, pointedly turning away as he came to stand before her. Her voice rang out across the cobblestones clearly, if somewhat tangled by the thick Cockney accent that lay heavy on her tongue. Even if he normally cringed at the harsh sounds of the street vendors and ruffians of the area, he found himself somewhat charmed by the unabashed and almost proud bit of rough he sensed in this one.

Reaching out, he snatched the handful of carnations from her grip, and turned abruptly as if to leave, knowing it would get a rise from the intriguing guttersnipe.

“Oi! Get yer bloomin’ ‘ands off me merchandise if ya don’ mean ta pay!” she cried, her temper riled like a hellcat on the turn of a dime, much as Jones had expected it would be.

Swinging back to face her, which brought them practically nose-to-nose , as she had begun to charge after him, Killian waggled his brows insolently, making the challenge plain, even before he spoke. “Perhaps I might return them… in exchange for my watch, eh Lass?”

Jerking backwards, the impudent young woman eyed him warily for a second as if trying to gauge the true meaning of his words, to discern if he were just fishing for information, or if he really knew what she had done, and then she narrowed her pretty eyes at him, slamming a wall down over the openness he had glimpsed for a moment, allowing him to see past the scruffy interior to something more vulnearable, something (if he were even a bit more gullible) which might have seemed sweet. “Lookit Mister, don’t think that fine hat and pipe and your sharp suit gives you leave to muck about with foolish accusations. I ain’t about ta take none o’ your guff, an’ I don’ ‘ave your filthy watch, so just move on along why don’cha?”

Whether she realized she was doing it or not, the blonde had stepped right back into his space, nearly as soon as she had pulled away. The ridiculous chit actually had the pluck to act like an offended innocent, when Killian became all the more certain with each passing second that she had his pilfered watch hidden on her person even as they spoke. Her pointer finger jabbed into his chest next to the top button of his waistcoat for emphasis, and she wasn’t backing down an inch. She had fire, he would give her that; he was almost as impressed as he had initially been irked.

However, now that his challenge had been taken up, Jones felt his competitive nature roar to life within, and he intended to prove her wrong, to show her just whom she had trifled with and that he was not her average fool. He leaned forward as well, his lips nearly brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured, “Perhaps you’d allow me to search you and verify your statement?” Allowing his eyes to rove down from her face slowly before trailing back up again, his tongue poking into the inside of his cheek suggesting the sort of shameless liberties he would never actually take with a lady, no matter what her situation or social status. He might play at a bit of dashing roguishness, but he still considered himself a man of honor at his core.

Those green eyes flashed the same sort of warning color the sky out over the Thames took on when a storm was rolling in and the wise knew to run for cover; the sickening chartreuse of a deep, bruised wound and every bit as risky to provoke or fail to heed. Snatching back the finger that had been pressed against his breastbone, his beguiling nemesis raised her hand, clearly intending to strike him for his cheek - which, admittedly, he quite probably deserved - if he had not caught her wrist in a firm grasp that stalled the motion.

“Easy now, Love,” he murmured, enjoying her gumption too much to leave well enough alone. “Let’s not have you doing something we’ll both regret.”

“I am  _ NOT  _ your love!” she spat back, wriggling in his hold and looking livid enough to claw his eyes out if he let her free to do so. “And if you don’t unhand me…” she hissed, the threat clear now, even as a glimmer of fear also surfaced beneath the fire in her gaze. Killian had no doubt that she would follow through on whatever threat she was about to make, but that flicker and the slight quaver it allowed him to hear in her sharp voice told him she also didn’t know what might happen to her in the meantime, before she could make good on her words. And that hint of trepidation, that she didn’t know his true intentions and felt in herself in danger, quickly doused the fire he’d felt rising in his blood and his own fun in their back and forth.

Quickly, he retreated a step and released her arm, though his boxing reflexes were at the ready, knowing he might well be ducking a slap or punch in the very next moment.

To Killian’s surprise, however, the infuriating lass pulled herself up to her full height, smoothed her rather bedraggled skirts, and eyed him disdainfully as was possible under the circumstances. “Right wise choice you made there,” she snarked, huffing her annoyance as if she hadn’t been the one to start the whole debacle by picking his pocket in the first place. The very real worry he had sensed in her only seconds ago had vanished as if it were never there. “You’d be sorry had I gotten me brother on the case. He’s Chief Inspector, and he don’ take kindly to blighters like you harassing me.”

“Wait a minute now,” Killian interrupted, holding up a hand as he considered her rant, for the first time in their entire interaction feeling a bit out of the loop. “You don’t mean Chief Inspector Nolan? Of Scotland Yard?”

“The very same,” she snapped, arms crossed in front of herself. “What of it?”

Killian’s mind - rarely ever puzzled or caught by surprise, and so all the more intrigued by the seeming anomaly before him - struggled to catch up with and match this saucy baggage before him with the straight-laced knight-in-armor type he sometimes counseled in particularly complex criminal investigations. Inspector David Nolan was as by-the-book, simple and solid as they came, not by any means dense, but certainly not possessed with as cracklingly sharp wit or tongue as the angry sprite squared off before him. The Inspector had also never mentioned any family whatsoever beyond his sweet, fresh-faced wife and newborn son, but then again, it wasn’t as if they were ‘mates’ either. Jones couldn’t exactly see himself kicking back for a pint of rum with the man, even if they did tolerate each other in the name of justice from time to time. 

He was about to tell the feisty harridan before him that he didn’t bloody care who her brother was, he would be having his watch back, when she stunned him once more, her chin jutting up imperiously as she added, “What? Din’ think a street rat like me ‘ad friends in higher places, eh?”

“On the contrary,  _ Love, _ ” Killian countered, purposefully emphasizing the endearment he had simply used out of habit before but now meant to annoy her, as he tapped the brim of his hat in the semblance of a bow. “I think you must have some remarkable friends indeed, or someone would have taught you a lesson in manners by now.” Her mouth opened and closed, floundering for a sharp retort no doubt, but he wasn’t yet finished. “Like it or not, I know you have something of mine, and I will see it returned.”

Nearly growling in frustration, she whirled away from him, turning her back and quickly moving away with the rest of her wares.

Jones watched her go troubled, curious, and stirred all at once; a curious cocktail he hardly recognized it had been so long since last he felt it. Though he didn’t have time to stand there long before he hurried off to meet Graham and Liam, sure that he would now be the one late instead of his elder sibling.

He didn’t notice - yet one more uncharacteristic slip in his usual near-omniscient awareness - the strange rosy glow in the twilight darkness of the now deserted street where he and the flower cart thief had argued. From around the corner of a packed nearby alley, narrowed dark eyes had watched the entire encounter, tracking either Holmes or the girl with avaricious interest. The reddish light glowed brighter for an instant as the excitement of its possessor swelled, so bright that for a moment if anyone had still been present it could not have been missed. Then, the red beacon was shuttered, going out like an extinguished flame. Once more there was only a nondescript London street, and the unseen watcher off on their sinister mission, having seen what was needed, unbeknownst to those who were observed.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in continuing this little Sherlock Holmes-flavored tale! I hope those who were intrigued by the first chapter will continue to enjoy all the same...

_ Part Two _

Chief Inspector David Nolan watched with weary acceptance as his erstwhile younger sister paced back and forth in front of the large mahogany desk in the private office at the Yard which he had worked bloody hard to earn. It wasn’t as though farm boys from Surrey made their way up the elite ranks of London’s police force regularly, and he could admit himself more than a bit proud of the distinction. It wouldn’t be the first time he had seen Emma in such a state either - she was as stubborn as the day was long, and had quite the temper besides, if a person had poor enough judgement to rile her. Though he didn’t mind listening to Emma’s tirade, he would have to quiet her soon, both because her rant was rising in volume instead of tapering off, and because the man she was ranting against was indeed an acquaintance of his and had helped him out of some tight scrapes - more than Nolan would actually like to admit.

Standing finally, and rubbing a hand over tired eyes - his latest case had already kept him from sound sleep three nights in a row - David rounded the desk with measured and steady stride to take Emma’s arm gently, stopping her wild gesticulations in midair before she could manage to clock him on the chin. Even though at present he found himself wishing she could be a bit more demure and correct, David did care deeply for the slip of a young woman his single mother had taken into their home when he was fourteen and Emma only twelve. His mum had caught Em’s hand in her pocketbook outside the market where she had been lurking, stealing to survive. He still remembered those half-wild eyes, her dirt-smudged face, and how thin and ravenously hungry the girl who became his sister had been. She’d already been alone on the streets for some time by that point, had trusted no one (she still trusted very few), and yet, Ruth Nolan, despite she and David having little to spare themselves, simply couldn’t abide the situation without helping. They’d only been in town to shop for a new sturdy coat to last David the winter and visit the theatre - a rare treat indeed - but when they had returned to the country, Emma had gone with them. Gradually, Emma had come to believe that they wouldn’t turn her out, that she couldn’t make Ruth rescind her welcome, and David had come to be glad for a sibling and hearty companion. There were still signs of that feral waif scrapping to survive when her eyes flashed with fury as they were doing just then, but David wouldn’t have Emma be someone else - even if it would make his life occasionally easier.

Hoping to placate her, at least a bit, before telling her what he knew might send her flying off the handle once again, David guided his sibling into the seat facing his desk, a soothing hand lingering at her shoulder as he attempted to commiserate. “It does sound as if your meeting with Mr. Jones was most vexing. No wonder you were put out.”

Emma was nodding along, her shoulders still radiating tension and looking only slightly mollified as he went back toward his own seat and lowered his broad-shouldered, commanding frame into it once more. “The sheer audacity!” She was still saying, clearly gearing up to tell him the whole story again, when David stretched his hand out to still her next torrent of hissed words.

“The thing is,” he began, rather hesitantly; regardless of his usual air of strength and authority, he seemed to be nearly tiptoeing around his sister, knowing her tart tongue and ability to hold a grudge could make him truly miserable if he handled the situation badly and she thought him to be taking Killian Jones’ side over her own. “Jones was not in the strictest sense out of turn to claim that he knew me… nor to be surprised we were related. He  _ has  _ aided us here at the Yard several times now, when we thought a case was about to reach a true dead end. He’s a right clever chap, and much as I hate to admit it, he sees things the rest of us miss - myself included. It’s almost uncanny, and no doubt how he caught you in the act - slick and nimble-fingered as you are, Sis.”

Emma’s mouth opened with a comeback; he could see her gathering a fortifying breath, but at the last statement, clearly reminding her that he knew she sometimes returned to her less-than-legal roots and he looked the other way, she snapped it closed again, her teeth clacking against each other with the force. Instead, she arched a brow at him sardonically as if questioning what he had to tell her and already warning him that it wouldn’t change her mind all in one.

However, before he could get around to explaining that she would have to learn to tolerate Mr. Jones as best she could, because they would soon be seeing each other more often, or warn her once more of the dangers she invited by haunting the seedier neighborhoods where he knew she most liked to set up her cart of flowers and put her old, erstwhile skills into practice, they were interrupted by two sharp, business-like raps on his office door before it opened abruptly. His second-in-command, Graham Watson, entered with an apologetic and rather sheepish look on his face. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sir… Miss Emma…” the boyishly sweet-faced lieutenant nodded to her in deference before turning his attention back to her adoptive brother, a light flush actually crawling up the back of his neck toward his honey-colored hair, unmanageably curly and only adding to his tousled, youthful appearance as his eyes flicked back away from Emma. He had taken her to the opera once, and though he had been a perfect gentleman, Emma had the sneaking suspicion they would make for a poor pair beyond mere acquaintances. A faint smirk quirked one corner of her full, rosy lips upwards at the thought, but despite his clearly still harboring a bit of attracted interest, she had the distinct impression that he couldn’t handle her were she to truly let loose and be herself in his presence.

“That’s alright, Graham,” David assured, smiling and beckoning the other man forward.

Graham entered, but then turned back to usher another through the door behind him. “You told me to let you know when Holmes arrived,” he added.

Emma turned sharply in her seat, skin prickling with awareness at the sight of the tall, dark-headed and astonishingly blue-eyed man from the day before easing into the office behind Watson. He waggled an eyebrow at her, maddeningly aware of her strong reaction and raising her ire once more without even having spoken. Giving a brief dip of the head like a bow to her, he turned to face her brother as well, tucking his right thumb into the belt loop of his well-fitted charcoal slacks, and somehow making even perfectly correct dress attire look rakishly sinful as his hips preceded him a step forward into the room. “Afternoon, Nolan,” he greeted mildly, looking for all the world as though he had not a care. “Heard you wished to speak with me. Found the thief who took my watch, have you?”

He glanced over his shoulder at Emma, looking all-too-pleased with himself if the grin stretching his mouth in satisfied confidence was any indication.

“Why you…” she leapt to her feet, ready to stalk forward and challenge his accusation - true it might be, but she would like to see him prove it. However, she found that the creative and colorful arsenal of pejorative names and curses usually ready on the tip of her tongue were all tangled up inside her mouth. Opening and closing it several times uselessly, she finally shook her head with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him darkly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her struggle for words.

Smirking with lazy ease, as if the entire situation amused him immensely, Jones rolled his tongue around in his mouth obscenely (it did  _ not _ make Emma’s pulse tap noticeably in her throat at all) before speaking to her once more. “Aye, Love, it is me, as you say…. Always nice to make an impression.” And then (the very cheek of him!) he winked at her before sliding his gaze back to her brother.

It certainly didn’t help her rising temper to sense David, and Graham too it seemed, silently chuckling as he watched their volatile exchange. She supposed she deserved that to some extent, being quicker and more stealthy than most by half, and not ashamed to make it known and use it to her advantage, even with those closest to her when it suited. It probably was more than a bit amusing to both of them to see her genuinely rattled by this...this… Well, she didn’t even have a word for this Killian ‘Holmes’ Jones, but she wasn’t about to stand there and have them all snickering at her expense. Sweeping around her chair in the opposite direction, careful to avoid coming anywhere near Jones, she threw over her shoulder as she started for the door. “Well, David, if we’re done for the moment, I’ll be going…”

She was well on her way to stalking dramatically from the room, congratulating herself through her flustered nerves that it would serve them right to have run her off when they needed her for whatever they were gathered to cluck about like a bunch of old hens. David and Graham both knew she was a valuable and well-placed set of eyes and ears to the ground in parts of the city where the police could go but would see and hear nothing at all. David had accepted her help gratefully on numerous occasions - even if he always tried to go without it at first. He argued about jeopardizing her safety and the questionable legality of involving someone not part of the force to gain intelligence.

None of that concerned Emma though; she liked proving her mettle - and her skill. Deep down, there was also, she supposed, a part of her that wanted to do something in return for the gift David’s mother, and David too, had given her, taking her into their home and off of the street. He was the one person left in the world she could call family, and she would do anything for him, despite that sentiment going largely unspoken. She knew the same was true of him for her.

Before she could get out the door however, David’s voice drew her back in, a weariness and a resigned need to it that practically compelled her to wait and hear him out. David was capable and astute; good at his job no matter how much she might playfully heckle or give him grief. If he were this intent on having her assistance, then it was something serious with which he was dealing. A tremor of awareness, foreboding shivering up her spine, ran across Emma’s skin as she paused and then turned back to the three men now gathered around David’s desk and the precarious mess of papers piled atop it that she had failed to notice until that very second.

Graham’s voice spoke next, sounding both troubled and anxious as he did so, “Are you sure we should…?” His hands wrung themselves nervously, as if he was having to consciously fight not to reach out and cover the crime scene photographs she could just make out peeking from the stacks strewn across the surface before her as she drew nearer.

And when she actually laid eyes on what her brother’s lieutenant had wanted to shield her from, Emma’s stomach did make a large and unpleasant lurch for her throat. Pressing her hand against her abdomen to still its sudden roiling, despite all that she had seen in her rough and ramshackle upbringing and colorful present dealings, she had to hold back a shocked gasp of horror at the sight in front of her. It was a near thing indeed. Even as she struggled not to jerk her glance away and stand up straight and unfazed, not wanting it to be dismissed as “feminine vapors”, or something equally ridiculous if she showed too much distress. She knew her brother and his subordinate better than that anyway - and they seemed plenty subdued and disturbed by the pictures as well. But she  _ would not  _ show weakness in front of Killian Jones.

To her surprise, at just the moment she had that thought, and steeled herself against the tremors trying to overtake her limbs, she felt a light, surreptitious hand rest carefully at the small of her back. It took a mere moment to realize that the touch was Jones, and that he must mean it to be steadying, offered in comfort and solidarity. He didn’t make an attempt to look at her in mocking, nor did he draw the other two men’s attention to his actions. And though her eyes had narrowed to near-slits, ready to chastise him about keeping his hands to himself, and warn him that she had no need of his brand of comfort, Emma found herself doing nothing of the sort. Where she had felt herself going cold at the fearful sight chilling her blood from the displayed evidence, warmth seemed to radiate from where his large hand rested, fighting off some of the frigid ice that had infiltrated her veins with the repulsion she felt for the crime. Despite still wanting to show him up if she could, and despite not wanting to let a point of frailty show, she was glad to have the contact in that minute, while she battled to regain control.

The criminal David was chasing was clearly a monster… and they were going to need all the help they could get.

~~~~~~~~~~~~***

Deep, devious eyes, painted beguilingly, narrowed in intense concentration as they studied the carnage spread out over the worktable. Rather than finally seeing the last ingredient needed, there was instead merely one more bloody mess. A needless loss - not that the culprit was crying any tears over the unfortunate victim.

Not unexpectedly, it was now proven, as the villain had feared, that not just any organ would do. It must be a heart, fatal as that realization was. Moreover, no random heart would suffice either. Her last conquest had made that appalling fact abundantly clear.

No, if she wanted to truly put the alchemical possibilities she had studied to the test, and to discover if her abilities within the field were as great as she needed them to be, this final hurdle and greater risk was unavoidable. Bringing the dead back to life was seemingly impossible; none disputed that fact. And yet, she refused to accept those terms, ending her life’s happiness when it had barely begun.

Wiping deceptively pale and delicate hands on the cloth beside her, she did her best to remove the vivid red stains covering her hands and forearms where they were bared beneath her rolled up sleeves. Resurrection was bloody work indeed, but her course had long since been set. A specific heart it would have to be. Garnet lips painted as deep and dark as the blood splattered around her tilted up in an unnerving and sinister smile. Oh yes, she would get that heart she needed - no matter what it took to acquire.


	3. Part Three

_ Part Three _

Killian Jones left his interview with Chief Inspector Nolan, Lieutenant Watson, and his pretty little thief deeply shaken by the savagery they were up against and more stirred in body and soul than he could remember being in quite some time. Emma - he now had a name to match that beguiling face and feisty bearing - her name suited her, lovely but short and to the point, lingering on his mind as he left the Yard and moved back through the crowded London streets to his apartment and study where he could meditate on his next course of action. 

Somewhere within the bustling streets of the city he called home, lurked an evil that was stalking victims, slaughtering with a brutal precision, and leaving little trace behind with which to catch and stop their trail of carnage. Was it a black market trade in stolen organs? Some sort of opium ring gone horribly awry? A disturbed sadist with no true reason at all other than their own macabre and twisted interest? The sight of the crime scene images had been unsettling to say the least. Certainly he had thought no less of Miss Nolan when he noticed her already porcelain skin pale considerably at the gore captured in stark black and white, and her stance wavering just the tiniest bit unsteadily, even as he also noted the tight clenching of her delicate fingers and the firm way she pressed her lips together, clinging to her control with everything she had. Instead, he had only intended to offer a bit of bolstering support as he sidled nearer and laid a hand to her back in wordless solidarity. He was astute enough not to see merely the signs that she was unsettled, but that she did not wish for her associates to know it - and he had no intention of giving her away.

Though Killian had known Emma scarcely 24 hours, he knew enough about the world and the time they lived and worked in to gather that her way could not have been an easy one. She was quite obviously clever, quick, and inarguably lovely, but she was also clearly not meant for quietly milling about ballrooms repeating society gossip. No question she had come from very little to find herself willing to work as a flower cart girl - even if it were merely a cover for her work with the Yard - particularly in the part of London where he had first encountered her. It made Emma all the more intriguing to his mind; no shrinking hothouse flower too delicate for any sense or purpose - that much was abundantly clear. When he wasn’t verbally sparring with her in maddening circles, Jones found that she quite made his mouth go dry and his heart palpitate wildly. He hadn’t felt such excitement since he was little more than a callow youth, back when a very different pair of sparkling eyes and husky voice had made his entire being turn to mush. Not since Milah…

Growling low in his throat, Jones shook himself fiercely from that dangerous course of reverie, angrily shoving aside the notes he had begun to jot down on Nolan’s puzzling case. He stood abruptly, shoving his hand through the riotous thick tufts of his dark hair, making them stand on end as he began to pace. This sort of distraction would do no one any good, least of all him. Had he not vowed all those years ago to abstain from such flights of fancy?

Lust, attraction, besotted mooning - whatever form romantic interest might take - it dulled the mind, made him miss details he would normally catch, made him slow, dense, and foolish instead of behaving with the careful perception on which he prided himself. He would not stumble at the same hurdle twice. He could bar his heart against that skinny waif of a guttersnipe.  _ He could _ ...and he must. Countless lives might depend on his clearheaded thinking if his interest in Miss Nolan impeded his ability to track down a coldblooded murderer. Not to mention… he swallowed hard, his pacing steps slowing… not to mention that the one time he had allowed his heart to rule his head - he had lost horrifically and another had paid the ultimate price in his place. That  _ could not _ happen a second time.

Refocusing his thoughts, Killian knelt to pick up the papers he had scattered and returned them to order on his desk. Sitting down once more, he went back over all they knew, and was soon absorbed in the possibilities, theories, and connections which never failed to appear at the outset of a mystery. Scribbling furiously to record any idea of relevance before it could be lost, the detective was soon fully engrossed in the facts and puzzles that served him best, not allowing himself to consider doing otherwise again.

~~~~~~~~~~***

Meanwhile, some streets over, Emma Nolan was making her own way back to her small flat as well, not at all sure what to make of the disgust and unease tumbling and rolling through her belly, churning in her gut with a disconcerting frequency, lurching up her throat as if she might lose all she had eaten that day, and then ebbing only slightly as she clenched her teeth together and breathed deeply through her nose to fight down the bile before pressing onward determinedly. She had grown up in a rough world where life was much cheaper than the average Londoner would care to admit, where softness and naiveté were a liability one simply could not afford. When she’d fled the foundling home to fend for herself on the streets, where at least she would not be purposefully teased and tormented, Emma had not retained what wide-eyed childish innocence she’d still possessed for very long. She sometimes shuddered to think what lengths she might have gone to if she hadn’t picked the pocket of Ruth Nolan and subsequently been taken in - scratching and squalling at first - only to become part of a family at last.

Even with her less-than-savory - or even normal - beginnings, Emma still had not seen the sort of needless savagery catalogued in those crime scene photos strewn over David’s desk. Her older brother might tend toward the needlessly protective, and Graham too could be stiflingly careful of her “delicate sensibilities”, but she almost wished she had been shielded from that sight. Those pictures would almost certainly haunt her sleep. 

As she hurried up the steps to her third floor lodgings, hustled in the door, and quickly made her way to the rickety vanity mirror over her bathroom sink and to begin fussing with her disheveled and wavy mass of hair, Emma was still deep in thought, even as she was trying to restyle it into a more eye-catching twist before she headed back out with her cart; hoping to draw attention, if only to study those who gathered around her. It was a bit late to do a lot of good, but seeing just what they were up against made her feel the effort couldn’t wait. She could at least keep her eyes open for an hour or two as people headed out for late meals and to the theater further up town. Despite the effort it took with brush and numerous bobby pins, not to mention several frustrated huffs and annoyed restarts, her minds was still unraveling the disturbing facts they did have as she worked. Once Emma finally had her blonde mane piled high at her crown once again, a few curls wisping down to frame her face attractively, she turned to seek out a more colorful dress as well, finally settling on the troubling inconsistency which had been niggling at the corner of her mind.

While not much of life was sacred in the city’s darker corners, and sadly violence was not so rare when living with thieves and worse, there was at least a reason or a cause for most crimes in London’s poorer underbelly. Something would be missing from the victim’s pocket or bag, or they would be in an area known for gambling or opium dealing; perhaps even further investigations would bring to light that most victims had quarrelled with someone known to be dangerous to cross. But this case - people ravaged, cut open, with organs missing - and seemingly no other purpose for their demise, made no sense. It wasn’t just troubling for its horrific detail, but for the simple fact that they seemed to be killed for the mere sake of destruction, of taking a life. And even worse - chosen at chilling random. It was worse than any of the theft or conning she had witnessed all her life, this casual depravity, and it was hard to shake the horror it left behind.

Once she was collected and ready, Emma tried to stop and gather her thoughts, to steel her frazzled nerves for the evening ahead. Yes, the degenerate prowling the dark and smoggy streets was a frightening reality, but she was no fainting society Miss with fragile nerves and little gumption. She was doing nothing more than what was asked of her, keeping her eyes open and reporting back on anything strange or out of the ordinary.

Determining that, she was able to nod her chin firmly, square her shoulders, march back down the steps at the front of the building, making her way toward the fresh market where she usually managed to purchase enough blooms to look the part of a simple flower cart girl rather than extra eyes and ears for the city’s police force. She would have never imagined herself one day earning a fair salary from the coppers for her ill-gotten skills in stealth and observation, but she wasn’t daft enough to look a gift horse in the mouth either. She might have a leg up through her brother in this particular field, but if she weren’t serving as a sort of informant for him, she would have had precious few options for making her way in the world. She was a woman of no name or connections, no bright, youthful, accomplishments to recommend her, and she though she was bright, she had spent many of her formative years trying to make sure she ate enough that her stomach’s pangs didn’t keep her up all night or that the older kids in the homes she’d landed in didn’t come to pound on her or steal her few possessions in the dark to fuss over arithmetic. Once she had finally landed with Ruth and David and accepted that she truly was safe there and would not be put out on her ear, her years of schooling were nearly over. She wouldn’t have had many options beyond a salesgirl of some sort if she had been left to her own devices. She was grateful she hadn’t been; her brother would be the first to attest that she did not possess the sweet and patient temperament to wheedle a purchase from most customers.

Scrunching up her nose, she paid for the armload of asters, carnations, black-eyed Susans, and daisies and turned to hurry off to the less crowded and much dodgier end of the street. She wouldn’t admit it to most - too much of the unrepentant pickpocket and scamp in her even yet to acknowledge the sentimentality - but she wanted to do something worthwhile; to be part of an effort that made things better than what she had known as a child, to give something back and prove that the Nolans had been right to pluck her out of the gutter and take her in, to return their generosity, so to speak.

Lost in these thoughts and shaking her head at the rather maudlin turn they had taken, Emma was reflecting both that she was glad what went on in her head couldn’t be heard aloud and whether or not her adopted brother didn’t somehow already know and understand her motivations anyway. It was only after surfacing from that reverie at the rather stained and littered stretch of pavement where she often “set up shop” that she realized just how low and grey the sky had become within the last hour. An ominously thick fog, seeming dense enough to reach out and slice her fingers through or to move in and smother bystanders, was hanging in the air, and it was much darker than seemed at all normal for late afternoon. While she usually picked this spot because it was less crowded and noisey - fewer competitors with similar wares, and therefore a clearer view of genuine persons of interest - it seemed unnaturally devoid of calling voices, horns and whistles, and clanging metal; all of the sounds that were common to the city streets, and even more eerily deserted. In fact, the only sound Emma heard, now that she truly focused on her growing suspicions, was the sharp clip of her smart little heeled boots on the pavement as she spun to look behind her and paced anxiously on the pavement.

She was more than just ill at ease now. This sudden shift in the air around her wasn’t right somehow. Though unable to explain the sensation, the hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end and alarm bells were blaring in her head, screaming for her to move, to leave, to get out of there, irregardless of her previous intentions

Always stubborn to a fault, Emma was resolutely shaking her head, chiding herself for being silly, when her eyes caught a gleam of strangely-colored light from the blackness in the mouth of the alley across the way. Craning her neck, Emma’s breath caught in frightened suspense, unable to see anything else now in the swirling ever-thickening fog that obscured everything else in between, seeming almost to brush across her cheeks and neck in a chilling, insidious caress and to wrap around her like phantom bonds. The points of light that she had seen grew brighter, two red pinpricks like eyes glowing out of the dark, and then they doubled, parting, and doubled again, now three pairs of what she was certain were eyes, emerged from their cave and stalked toward her, though their forms were otherwise unseen beyond the unearthly crimson light.

“No…” she breathed, stumbled back against the building wall behind her, almost unable to process what she was seeing for several desperate seconds. 

But those frightening eyes were still moving impossibly closer. The fog obscured any of the bodies connected, yet Emma knew they couldn’t belong to anything good. It felt as though her knees had gone to water, even as she tried to order herself to run. No longer sure if she was out of her mind and hallucinating, she almost thought she could hear a low, rumbling growl, a panting animal breath, wafting toward her in heated puffs of air. The malingering fog seemed to rise up even more heavily around her, swirling in her eyes with blinding accuracy to further confuse and disorient. And then, all seemed to stop as a blood-chillingly wild sound rose up right in front of her - the incomprehensible howl of a ravenous wolf.

It made no sense, but that didn’t matter. Emma whirled, panic screaming that she was already too late, and ran unseeing in the other direction. It was madness in the murky darkness so thick she couldn’t see a foot ahead; the fog seemed almost sentient - as if it meant to hold her back for the predators on her heels. And she knew they were there; she could hear them just behind her, snapping and slavering. It was only a matter of time. They were going to catch her, run her down like a rabbit and tear her apart.

Frantically, she pressed forward, feet pounding, straining to go faster yet, desperate to outrun the unseen monsters. Somehow she was still going, hadn’t fallen or smashed into some obscured obstacle, hadn’t felt their gnashing teeth sink through her skin. Her breath was whooshing out in desperate rasps as she continued to push herself; arms pumping, lungs burning. It still seemed as though the hot breath and snapping muzzles must be mere inches from her and somehow she kept going.

And then suddenly, a tight grip encircled her wrist, jerking her back and to the side, sending Emma careening off course and smacking into the strong, solid chest of another person, hidden by the shrouding atmosphere. Her breath escaped in a shocked gasp, and she flinched, curling in on herself against the warm body that surrounded her, wincing with eyes screwed shut at the expectation of being torn apart in the very next moment. 

Except, nothing happened. 

The fog broke apart somewhat, brushing over her cheek with a chill sort of farewell. The sound of chasing paws and salivating fangs nipping at her heels vanished; the monsters she would have sworn were pursuing her disappeared as quickly as they had materialized. The hand at her wrist came to rest on her upper arm, holding her out in a strong, bracing grip just enough so her unseen ally could look down into her face just as she tilted up her chin to peer at him curiously.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath at the heavy, dark brows furrowed over sharp, icy-blue eyes studying her as if she were some curious puzzle where a few of the pieces would not fit. It was none other than Killian Jones - the detective her brother referred to as “Holmes” and her insufferably self-assured mark from the previous day. While one part of her wanted to brush him off and stalk away with a reminder to keep his distance, a breathless part of her was still trying to regain her equilibrium from the nightmarish chase she had just experienced. She simply couldn’t bring herself to be so tart with someone who had saved her from whatever phantom shadows would have run her down.

Soon enough, Jones relinquished his hold on her on his own, asking curiously, “Alright there, Miss Nolan? You’re as pale as if you had seen a ghost.” One of those insouciant brows arched in an expressive manner along with the slight quirk up of one corner of his mouth. Was he teasing her? Sincere? As animated as his face was, she had not quite learned to read it yet.

Huffing a noncommittal sort of sound through pursed lips, she attempted to right herself, smooth her hair and clothing, and catch her breath before blurting out just what had spooked her. He would certainly think she belonged in some asylum rather than getting to the bottom of all this frightening mystery in their city.

Unfortunately, her mouth seemed to have some mission of its own, beyond the control of her rational mind. After a deep breath and realizing she had to say something rather than stand there opening and closing her mouth wordlessly, she sputtered, “Yes, well, I thought… I was being chased… I - I - heard their feet right behind me…” She blinked up at him, not having to work nearly as hard as usual to appear innocent and in need of help. “Didn’t… You… You didn’t hear anything?” She gulped in another lungful of air, and waited - kicking herself all the while - for his response.

“Well, I heard you coming,” Holmes offered, drawing his words out as if carefully considering each one. “You were gasping and stumbling, clearly panicked and fleeing something. That’s why I reached out, hoping to help you if I could…” His words trailed off there, blue eyes searching her as if to ask the question he didn’t put into words. 

“Oh, um, thank you,” Emma tried meekly, still too shaken by all that had occurred to mock or tease him, or reprimand him for thinking he was some knight-in-armor she didn’t need. She  _ had  _ needed him - that, or she was losing her mind. Could she really have imagined it all? The strangling fog, the pack of wolves, the danger she had been in….surely she hadn’t. What did it mean if they  _ had _ been there though? And what caused them to just as suddenly disappear? 

Emma shook her head, frustrated. This was ridiculous, and Jones was going to think her weak and silly, afraid of whispers and the wind. Throwing back her shoulders, she shook her head and offered a little laugh that rang hollow even to her own ears. “Goodness knows what I was thinking! Clearly there’s no one else out here; those pictures this morning must have spooked me more than I realized.”

Killian Jones didn’t speak at first, merely studied her closer, still without words, a curious glimmer livening those already hypnotic blue eyes. She got the troubling sense that he didn’t miss a thing and could read her false assurances as easily as if she hadn’t even tried to offer them. No matter how she forced herself to calm her breathing and meet his gaze steadily, Emma found herself wanting to squirm and look away under such intense scrutiny, unable to fully explain just what she had felt and seen in any sort of sensible manner. 

Either he at last saw what he was searching for, or realized just how unnerving his assessment had become, because Jones dipped his head in a self-deprecating nod, shifting his eyes away with a lightly bemused chuckle and an awkward hand came up to scratch nervously behind his ear. Emma tried to ignore the way the very top curve of those ears were flushed red - and how endearing it was to see that he too was off-balance.

“Pardon me, Lass,” he murmured finally, taking a step back, then turning away from the alley into the street and offering his arm for her to take as they continued down the sidewalk in the direction she had been hurrying. “I seem to have forgotten all of my manners. Perhaps you would conclude your surveillance for tonight and allow me to see you back to your abode?”

Emma blew out a shaky breath. She wanted to refuse the gesture. She could look after herself and make her own way home when she was ready, but… She hesitated only a second as her eyes waivered to glance back at the darkened street in the direction she had come. In truth, she had barely gotten started for the night, but no one else needed to know that. She was still quivering from the fright she’d endured, and truly didn’t want to stay out on the shrouded streets alone any longer. Settling on action instead of words at all, she merely tucked her hand into the crook of his offered elbow and nodded her assent.

As they moved away, she tried to ignore the low rumble of a growl her ears just barely caught on the foggy air behind them, strove to unsee the impossible gleam of what still appeared as red, glowing eyes in the deep shadows at her back. She fully intended to believe it had all been imagined by a shaken psyche, even as she glanced nervously back over her shoulder.


	4. Part Four

_ Part Four _

It didn’t take long for Killian Jones and Emma Nolan to make their way back through the darkly clouded London streets to reach her home again. Not much was said, and Killian felt this perplexing young woman stealing glances over at him, anxious, ill at ease, and almost embarrassed, if he had to guess - though he couldn’t fathom why. True, they did not know each other well, but they were on the same side. If the older sibling whom she clearly looked up to trusted him, surely she knew she was safe with him, even on this strangely deserted nighttime street unchaperoned. For a second, Jones almost chuckled to himself at the mental image of how she might react to the idea of needing a chaperone at all.

Shaking his head, Killian refocused and stole a quick glance of his own. Though the still-obscuring fog made it hard to see clearly, Ms. Nolan was indeed blushing and fidgeting, wringing her hands together, even as she kept brisk pace with him easily. What had her so abashed? There was no need for her to feel foolish in the slightest; she had thought she was being pursued in a city where a violent killer was on the loose. That was enough to shake even the stoutest of constitutions. She was not made of stone - nor did he expect her to be.

“This is me,” Emma interrupted his inner musings abruptly. She had stopped at a set of steps up into a sturdy brick apartment building, gesturing to indicate they had reached her dwelling.

“Brilliant, Lass,” Jones nodded, acknowledging her words and turning to face her on the sidewalk.

As uncomfortable as she had appeared on their journey, he had fully expected her to blurt out a goodbye and flee up the stairs to the door, but instead Emma shuffled her feet as if reluctant to leave. As fractious as their previous encounters had been, sparking into fire that poked and prodded at his own hard exterior, mocking, infuriating, and then stirring his blood, Killian didn’t know what to expect from her hesitation, but found he wanted her to stay as well.

Finally, she raised those bright green eyes up to face him, piercing him with the strength of her gaze, and spoke seriously. “There was something out there - before I ran into you, Mr. Jones. I gather you didn’t see it, but I was not imagining things. Nor was it some silly, flighty little fancy or whatever you might be assuming.” She squared her shoulders as she drew a quick breath, but she jutted her chin out with determination and pressed on before he could speak in reply. “You wouldn’t be the first to try to dismiss me as some irrational female, but I am  _ not _ backing down. S-something was out there, and I - “

There Killian had to break in, reaching out to catch her forearm gently as she began to wave her hands wildly with her emphatic speech. “Wait, wait… hold on a second,” he tried, pulling back his hand once again when he realized after stilling her swinging gesticulations that though her voice was fierce and her stance undaunted, he could feel her slight frame trembling when he touched her. She’d had quite a fright and been plowing ahead ever since, trying not to appear as shaken as she must have been. “I didn’t doubt you at all. True, I did not see anything, but the fog was dense and I was coming from another direction, for one thing. For another, one does not work in unraveling mysteries for as long I have without realizing that things are not always as they appear.”

Emma didn’t back down, didn’t blink, yet she seemed to relax somehow. A measure of the tension between them released as she seemed to exhale at last - the tiniest bit of her guard retreating. “You...you believe me?” she finally asked, her voice much softer, almost dazed by his assertion; a definite shift from the sharp antagonism in her voice not long ago.

He nodded slightly, holding her gaze in an effort to broadcast his sincerity. “I promise you, Miss Nolan. I am not trying to discredit you.”

She gave a brief, curt nod, her adorably pert little chin bobbing sharply as she accepted his word without further argument. A tiny part of him wanted to celebrate - even laugh aloud - at the measuring way her eyes sparked, even narrowed in concentration as they were, but he held his reaction in, knowing that would undo whatever truce he had managed to reach with her. “Fine. I’ll choose to take you at your word,” she managed, holding out a hand to shake his before turning to climb the first step up to the door of her building. Then she swung around to face him again abruptly. “Oh, and Jones?” she added, with much less force. “Thank you… for showing up when you did.”

At that, Killian did have to let one corner of his mouth tick up into a pleased half-smile. Simply and definitely, he replied, “Anytime, Lass. Anytime.”

Once up the stairs and at the door in her own apartment, Emma swiftly crossed her small living room to peer out the window and down into the London street below. She didn’t want to admit why she was doing so, but it was dark and no one was going to know about it, so she let a smile of her own stretch across her lips as she got one last quick look at Killian ‘Holmes’ Jones’ lean, graceful figure before he disappeared around a corner and out of her sight. Shaking her head, Emma continued to gaze down on the foggy grey landscape below, the streetlamp lights with hazy halos around them drawing her eye once the antagonistic but attractive detective had left her field of vision. It wasn’t something she was ready to admit out loud, or to anyone else, but she had misread the maddening man. Judging from their first encounter when - yes, admittedly, she had picked his pocket; he just wasn’t meant to notice it - and their second when he’d deliberately provoked and accused her in David’s office, she had been sure he would mock her for seeing things and jumping at shadows.

Instead, he had shown up in the very moment she’d been sure she was about to be caught by some monstrous creature, steadying her, seeing her safely home, and even professing to believe her. It was pleasantly unexpected, and she wasn’t used to people surprising her positively, exceeding her expectations and first impressions. The enigmatic, dark and clever gentleman had stirred something warm and unfamiliar loose in her chest, and she had to admit as she finally closed her blinds and turned to ready herself for bed, that it was more than a little bit thrilling.

The previous fear and unease had almost evaporated from her thoughts after their conversation - and now that she was home and had some distance from the chase and panic she’d experienced. Letting her hair down and shimmying out of her skirt and blouse into her more comfortable silky shift, Emma sat on her bed to remove her buttoned and high-heeled ankle boots, letting out a deep breath to be free of her constricting clothes and the pins jabbing her scalp as they held her updo in place. Running a hand through the loosened waves of her hair, she already felt her eyelids growing heavy; sleep tugging at her after all that had gone on that day and her adrenaline flagging. 

She was sleepy enough that she failed see creeping wisps of that same threatening fog slipping beneath the doorframe and around the cracks of the windowpane. Soundless, unnoticed, and gathering without her knowledge as Emma lay down, eyes still closed and lights turned out, leaving her surrounded and yet completely unaware. The smoky fingers slid across the floor, up the bedposts and nearer to her unguarded form as if possessing human purpose. The strange fog silently covered her and slid into her mouth and nose, assuring that her sleep was preternaturally sound. And lost to whatever else might sneak into the room with her, sinister intentions unimpeded.

~~~~~~~~~~***

Not knowing what to do with himself after he left the plucky waif who equally consternated and beguiled him, Killian had been too unsettled to simply head back to his own home and bed. He was troubled by the fact that he  _ hadn’t  _ seen whatever horror had been after Emma Nolan, and he didn’t understand how that could be possible when he staked his name on seeing what most others missed. Yet, he didn’t make the mistake of thinking she had dreamed up some pretend monster in an attention-seeking imagination or a nervous temperament. Clearly, she had been dismissed more than enough times to assume that was what he would do, but he already had enough of an impression of her character to know that Miss Nolan was sharp, brassy, and largely undaunted - unless what she faced was a genuine cause for concern.

He had delved in the darker crevices and corners of the city long enough in his job to know that not all things which  _ did  _ happen could be rationally explained. He was far too logical to claim magic, witches and fairies ran wild in the streets of London; yet, he had seen enough to know that there was not a solution to every cause which suited the laws of science and nature for a proper understanding. People did dabble in the occult at the risk of their own souls and others’ safety, and perhaps not all spirits retired peaceably from this world to the beyond immediately upon their physical passing. Whatever the case, as the great Bard himself had once written, “there were more things in Heaven and Earth”, and at the moment, one of those lesser known entities seemed more probable than dismissing out of hand the determined pickpocket for whom he had gained a grudging admiration. 

Why he didn’t know, but it seemed his mind had arrived at the resolution without his conscious consent. Therefore, perhaps it would be best to return to the Chief Inspector’s offices and make sure there was no hint of the more ethereal nature in any of those troubling crime scene photos or notes. If the older Nolan, or Graham, were still working at this hour, they might even have reports from the newest victim’s scene for him to study. Mind made up, he strode off in that direction, step brisk and swift. His conscience pricked that Miss Nolan’s brother could also well wish to know of the strange encounter she had weathered this evening, even as some other corner of his being shied away from revealing what he knew instinctively she would not wish to have shared, particularly with one as concerned and protective as an elder sibling. Shaking his head in a brief moment of amused understanding, he remembered Liam’s exasperation at many of his own scrapes and close calls as they were growing up. His elder brother had not meant to coddle him of course, but he had certainly hoped to instill more caution and decorum than a younger Killian had used on his own.

Of course, those thoughts led to the rash actions and wrenching loss that had taught him the deliberation, care, and control that he now had more than enough of to last him the rest of his days. If he had listened to Liam’s cautions to slow down, to think… If he had only taken a bit more time to learn who Milah had been and what she had been fleeing… she might still…

Thankfully, before that train of grim thought could derail much further, his steps led him to the imposing stone structure and tall surrounding fence of Scotland Yard. Without further adieu, Jones made his way across the front walk, through the cavernous entry hall, and back the rather dim hallway leading to the inspector’s office. Nolan wasn’t a man who stood on excessive ceremony, more concerned with doing his job and the necessary results than etiquette and protocol. He doubted the other man would begrudge his unexpected arrival to peruse any new findings and ensure his adopted sister’s safety and well-being.

Sure enough, upon nearing the correct door, Jones rapped on the wooden frame twice and was immediately welcomed forward with a curt “Come in!” in the inspector’s brusquely resonant voice. Entering, he found Nolan standing, leaning over his desk where stark photographs and notes were spread, hands braced on the edges of the sturdy surface - clearly still trying to make sense of the clues they possessed as well. The sleeves of his crisp dress shirt were rolled up nearly to his elbows, and his stumped frustration was clear in the way the muscles of his bared forearms flexed spasmodically. The furrow between his wide, usually clear and calm eyes was deep, his suit jacket discarded in the chair behind him, and Killian could tell he had been at this for hours - with nothing new to show for it.

“Ah, Holmes,” he greeted, a wry, half-smile gracing his face and making the man look much more his usual self. “Just the pair of fresh eyes I need! Come have a look at this.”

“Did the results come back from your most recent victim?” Killian asked as he moved around the desk to where Nolan already stood. Once at the Inspector’s side, he looked down at the scattered gathering strewn across the flat surface. Though they had already noted the troubling savagery and seeming needlessness of each previous murder, the scene now added to the collection seemed almost sedate. There was still more blood than anyone should be comfortable with, but there were far fewer slices and cuts, less outward carnage on display. In fact, the only truly large enough injury to account for the wash of blood beneath the body, the dark puddle in every crime scene photo, was the gaping hole in the chest cavity, open and empty with ripped and cut off valves and arteries - and only those - where the victim’s heart should have been. It looked as though someone - or some _ thing _ \- had reached in and pulled the heart from the victim’s body.

Leaning in to squint at the image more closely, trying to understand the necessity of getting one’s hand quite so dirty, to commit that amount of overkill, Jones tried to look deeper. What were they missing? What could the killer need with an actual human heart?

“Have all of the bodies been missing the heart?” Killian asked, stunned that this hadn’t been obvious to him sooner. He had studied all the previous site information as carefully as always, but none had seemed so blatantly about obtaining the single, necessary organ.

David shook his head soberly, mouth a thin, compressed line across his weary face. Scrubbing a hand down his features before answering. “No. The first two were missing numerous major internal organs. Then, as the kills continued, the number of organs missing lessened. At first, I hoped that meant the killer was getting sloppy, careless, closer to our capturing him. Then, as no other leads were forthcoming, and this sick hunt continued...well…” He shrugged helplessly, reminding Killian with a sharp twinge of guilt and conscience that this was where  _ he _ was meant to come in, with his ability to see and deduce things that mere dedication and simple, straightforward policing might miss. “I thought he’d possibly lost his lair, or been interrupted and had to hurry. It never struck me that this could be about a single organ in particular. And even if it is….our suspect must have several hearts by now. So why is he still butchering people right and left?”

Inspector Nolan’s frustration was palpable, and Jones couldn’t blame him for it in the slightest. It was baffling, and more than a bit depraved. The ‘why’ of this all suddenly seemed infinitely more important than the when, where and how - even if that was the way his factual, logical mind tended to process most cases. Letting out his own huff of thwarted tension, Holmes leaned over the pictures again, so close that the edges of the separate scenes began to blur together. Then, a detail struck him that had escaped notice until that moment. For the newest set of crime scene images, out of the gaping darkness of the victim’s empty chest, it seemed something even lighter than the grey hue of the broken skin surrounding the opening stood out.  _ Yes! Maybe... _ he blinked, trying to sharpen his focus once again. There was an edge of something just peeking out from the wound.

With a sharp indrawn breath, Killian pointed the barest sliver of true white out to the inspector, hardly daring to hope that his eyes were not playing trick on him. “Do you see that, Nolan? Is that… paper?”

A touch of urgency in his voice, Nolan already in motion, confirmed that he did see it and gestured impatiently for Jones to follow him. Their quick footsteps were out of the office, across the hive of the bullpen, and down the dark stairwell to the morgue in short order. “I hadn’t noticed that until you pointed it out, but the body should still be down here. We need to see just what it is.”

They barreled around the corner at a near jog, Nolan rapping loudly on the door into the medical examiner’s domain, and nearly charging forward before the faint offer of admittance sounded from within. Jones stood slightly back, letting the man with authority and credentials make their request of his colleague. In fact, he found himself offering a half-hearted look of apology to the startled man when Nolan practically snarled that they needed to see the newest body once more and commanded they be shown to the shelf where the corpse had been stored.

Jones cannot be terribly perturbed by the results Nolan’s abruptness grants them however, when not five minutes later they are looking down at the same view they’d had in the photograph upstairs. And sure enough, barely visible because he knows where to look, is the white edge of what can only be a thick sheet of parchment. The M.E. is still hovering nervously nearby, and at the detective’s motion, moves in with gloved hand and proper instrument to extract the indicated item. In seconds, they have it, though much the worse for wear and thoroughly stained with dried blood. Still, once the parchment had been laid on the table surface, and he and Nolan had donned gloves as well, Holmes found he could unfold the crinkled note and discern the words written in cramped, intense handwriting.

David Nolan still sported a dark scowl as his eyes scanned the strange missive and unusual text upon it. “Another dead end?!” He slammed his large hands down on the surface with a force that made the table rattle. “Why would he plant a paper full of gibberish in the body? Just to taunt us?”

“Whoa, whoa,” Killian cautioned. “It’s not gibberish. It’s Latin.” He could just make out the message showing through the vermillion stain:  _ ‘Not just any heart will do. The only one to use is the heart in armor.’ _

“You speak _L_ _ atin _ , Holmes?” the inspector asked disbelievingly.

Killian couldn’t help but smirk at the other man, waggling his eyebrow at bit despite the somber situation. “You’d be surprised what they teach you in the Royal Navy, mate.”

The inspector’s brow furrowed, looking both piqued and confused at Killian’s statement. Jones meanwhile found himself glad for the other man’s distraction. As the cryptic message began to truly sink in, he was overwhelmed by self-blame. His playful deflection had worked, Nolan had taken his knowledge at face value, and was now moving away to smooth things over with the flustered medical examiner. Thankful for the small mercy that he wasn’t having to explain just why he had closed himself off, why he never mentioned his naval service, and indeed why his own hard heart had felt cold and inadequate for so long, Killian could merely try to steady himself after the disturbing conclusion thrust upon him. Though the how and why were still largely a mystery, he could not overlook the fact that this monster had seemingly butchered all too many people in search of a heart like his.


	5. Part Five

** _Part Five_ **

The next morning found Inspector David Nolan once more within his well-appointed office at the Yard; this time not fruitlessly scrutinizing scattered photos for missed details, but pacing the length of the room with the restless energy of a caged beast. His walk to headquarters through a chill drizzle as dawn was just beginning to lighten the grey English morning, had been wet and cold, but nothing out of the ordinary for rainy London weather. Granted, he had barely slept that night, surely disturbing his sweet, compassionate wife. She had risen earlier than was her wont as well, making him a hearty breakfast and holding on more tightly than usual as she saw him on his way. He had been at work long before it was necessary, but it still did not explain why his second-in-command and his sister had not arrived for their meeting as scheduled; Emma to report anything she might have noticed on the streets in her previous evening’s scouting work, and David then intended to share with them both the clue he and Jones had uncovered.

Of course, he tried to recognize that his frustration was heightened, his patience not at the level he would normally attempt to exercise, and that they were merely a scant few minutes late. All the same, it was completely unlike Watson to be anything but prompt, following his superior’s orders to the letter (often even anticipating David’s wishes or going above and beyond in fulfilling them). It went against all established character for Graham to be tardy or forgetful, and though he did have a pleasant and more relaxed side to his personality once he grew comfortable with others, Watson was never careless. The fact that he had been meant to swing by Emma’s building and accompany her in, made Nolan’s already high tension all the more volatile. Though he knew his adopted sister could handle herself - had more than one permanent scar upon his person to attest to the fact - David Nolan would not be appeased until both Graham and Emma were present before him.

Even as he was thinking that very thing, pacing back over to the window to peer out upon the dreary sidewalk and damp grass in front of the imposing building in which he stood, Nolan heard the quick flurry of rushing footsteps at his door before it was flung open to admit his lieutenant’s abrupt entrance. 

Whirling with all senses on the alert, David’s shoulders only lowered a bit in relief to find Watson standing in the doorway. Eyes wide and searching as they scanned the office anxiously, Graham panted slightly from clear exertion, his face worried and paler than usual. The deputy’s wheaten curls were riotously mussed and in disarray from his hands raking through them, as he proceeded to do once more upon seeing his boss was the only person in the room. “Isn’t she here?” he asked worriedly.

David shook his head tersely. “No, she isn’t. I thought you were going by there to walk in with her?” He tried to keep the bite of recrimination from his words, but winced internally at the way Graham dipped his head to avoid his eyes, knowing he must not have succeeded.

“I  _ did _ go by her building. Rang for her several times, in fact. I got no answer and wasn’t sure how to proceed. Eventually, the building’s landlady came to the main door and let me in, but even going directly to her door, knocking and calling for her repeatedly brought no response. I couldn’t very well pick the lock and break in with the matron standing right there. I assumed - well, hoped really - that she had gotten an early start and was already here with you.” His words died out on the obvious conclusion that, not only was Emma not present, but she clearly had not been at her home either, or if so, was somehow unable to answer. The implication was chilling, to say the least. Their plan for the morning had been concocted between the two of them to see Emma safe but not make her feel coddled, doubted, kept on a leash, or watched like a child. All the same, now something might well be wrong, and they had been none the wiser.

“Send a runner to Jones’ residence. Holmes was here late last night; he saw Emma home from her undercover work, then wanted to discuss the last victim. We found something I was anxious to share with you. I’ll fill you in on the way, but we should get moving and figure out where Emma’s gotten off to. Have him meet us at her building as soon as possible - at least it’s a place to start.”

Graham gave a bob of the head and stepped into the lobby to flag down the needed messenger. Then both men were out the door and on their way again within moments; concern lending speed to their steps amidst hopes they were not too late. What neither man wanted to say was that Emma had likely not gone anywhere on her own - at least not of her own free will.

~~~~~~~~~~***

‘Holmes’ Jones met the Inspector and his friend Watson at Miss Nolan’s apartment, looking more rattled and concerned than David Nolan ever remembered witnessing; of course, he had done some research on the gentleman detective before reaching out to consult him in official police business. He had looked into the other man’s affairs well enough to know that there had been early abandonment, a less than savory romantic entanglement ended abruptly in a suspicious death, and a past proclivity to drown the memory of said losses in drink before his elder brother had lured him into an undersecretary position a few years back and seemingly given Killian Jones the rudder he needed to steady his course and once more find purpose. Said gentleman had eventually quit the position with his only known kin to go into his current private investigative endeavors, but it appeared that since his point of turnabout, Jones had maintained utter control of his more tempestuous impulses from the past. In fact, Nolan had often thought him rather cool and detached in his manner, unless he was employing charm and his handsome face to coax a witness into talking or to trip up a suspect. The inspector realized now that perhaps Jones’ business-like, emotionless distance had been a carefully arranged mask that was slipping away.

Killian Jones, for his part, could not help cursing his own negligence at simply walking away and leaving Emma at her doorstep the previous night, as if there were not a care in their worlds. Granted, she had been fine when they parted company; no doubt she would have balked at him insisting to see her all the way up to her private apartments as though it had been some blushing first date. The place had seemed normal and undisturbed - no signs of commotion or threat, no uneasy tingling at his nape (which once he could have depended on to give fair warning) - and so he had let it go, not wanting to push the tentative peace between himself and the prickly beauty.

However, fear for her safety and rampant self-loathing licked at the edges of his mind like ravenous ghouls in the changed circumstances of morning light. Had someone been lying in wait for her return home? How would said person have gained entrance? Or did a villain watch and wait until she was alone, asleep and off her guard, to break in and overpower her? Suddenly, Killian knew all too many details and statistics of this case and uncounted others to let that train of thought travel further without losing all composure.

The three men stood in Emma’s living room searching for anything which might provide a clue as to what had happened and how she had been accosted. Neither her door nor windows showed any sign of forced entry. The apartment reflected the comfortable clutter of a lived-in home, but it was free of the broken and scattered shambles that would indicate a struggle. Had Emma been overwhelmed before she could even attempt to fight back? Just as they had all feared, she seemed to have disappeared without a fight, in the midst of a case - something the feisty blonde they all held dear would never have allowed to happen without scratching and clawing and raising an alarm in her own defense if she were able.

That coupled with the discovery he and Nolan had made the night before was more than enough to set Killian well and truly on edge. Not only that, and the creeping fear that it was all connected, but an old memory of a disturbed individual whispered of some year before began to niggle at the corners of his mind. It had never become an official case - the clues and questions frighteningly sparse and circumstantial at best, but… there was a troubling echo of the deaths then with the ones they were seeing now. Holmes was just debating the efficacy of sharing his suspicions when the Inspector sat heavily on the large chest at the foot of his sister’s bed. His voice was weary as he looked down with unnecessary focus on his large hands clasped uselessly in his lap.

A deep sigh left him, broad shoulders slumped as David Nolan began, in a voice much softer than Killian had ever heard the officer use. “I don’t want to think this… and yet...I can’t in good conscience not tell you both that I fear Emma is in the hands of our killer.” His words were interspersed with reluctant pauses, but he continued. “She... she would want to strangle me…” Here he shook his head, looking almost boyish when some long ago memory caused a small grin to transform his face for mere seconds before slipping away once more. “If she knew I was telling you this...Emma would have my head...but let’s just say… she could easily be the ‘heart in armor’ from the clue we found.”

Graham at Nolan’s right side looked uncertain, brow furrowed as he considered his boss’ words. “Sire, no disrespect, I know she is tough and guarded, to be sure, but what makes her more so than many others?”

Killian arched a brow, surprised and rather impressed that Watson was going to push his superior for further explanation. Granted, he had wondered the same - especially since he had privately believed the clue was referring to him up until Emma’s disappearance at least. Still, he had figured he would need to ask the question himself.

Nolan ran a sharp, frustrated palm back over his close-cropped head, his agitation and discomfort growing continually clearer. “It wasn’t just that she was picking pockets on the streets to survive when Mum and I found her,” he murmured, forcing out the rest. “She wasn’t merely homeless; she’d never had a home at all...or anyone who cared how she was...if she were hurt...or angry...or afraid. There had been someone… an older boy who preyed on that...said he loved her. Then he betrayed what little trust she had for anyone… and left her with a baby… that she lost. She never told even me any more than that. So, yes, there is armor a foot thick and a mile wide around that heart of hers.”

Graham flushed and looked away, abashed and silenced as if he had forced Nolan to talk in the precinct box. Killian too blew out a stunned breath, well aware from just her small tells and the feeling of kinship with her he couldn’t ignore - despite their heated sparring - that Emma Nolan’s life must have been anything but easy. Still, he had not expected that depth of tragedy and pain. He was almost embarrassed to have assumed his own losses would have left a larger mark.

“Aye,” he murmured reluctantly, pursing his lips in troubled thought as he continued to scan the room around them, hoping to find something amiss or out of place, anything that might give them a lead as to where Emma might be now. “I can understand why such treatment might make anyone put up walls,” he finally added, coming to stand near the door and at last reluctantly admitting that there was nothing in the small apartment of any help to them.

Looking from one of his companions to the other intently, Killian bypassed his original theory - his own heart being the needed target. With Emma was missing and what David had shared, it seemed unlikely and a waste of their time. Instead he licked his lips, cautiously preparing himself to speak on the other odd connection that had been growing and solidifying in his mind. That half remembered case’s detailed were coming clearer as he pulled at the thread of recall. It had been suspected that the perpetrator had espoused the mad gothic ideas of reanimation, much like had been written of in Mary Shelley’s popular novel. He didn’t know any sensible way to broach such an outlandish theory outright with his colleagues, so instead he swept his gaze over to Graham’s face and queried, “Do you remember that mad tale  _ Frankenstein _ which was all the rage some years back?”

He was banking on the fact that his friend enjoyed those same eerie Victorian authors Liam did, having heard them discuss many such fictional works over scotch or brandy in Liam’s study countless evenings while a fire roared in the hearth and they idled a while in companionable talk before night’s end. He was honestly hoping Graham would know of the twisted story so he would not sound to both men as though he were making up his next conjecture from pure imagination.

Graham’s forehead creased in curious thought, but he nodded, warming to the topic just as Killian had intended. “Yes, I remember it. The main character - a doctor, but more like a mad scientist - creates a man from parts of grave robbed corpses. Hair-raising, genuinely. The author claimed the entire thing came to her as a nightmare, and I would believe it.” He shook his head, then continued, “However, the doctor does bring the inanimate body back to life with electricity from lightning.” Graham’s voice trailed off, eyes widening as he stared back at Killian, understanding dawning on his face. “Surely you don’t mean…?”

Killian didn’t answer aloud. It was clear exactly what he was coming to believe.

Inspector Nolan looked between the two, his lieutenant and his consultant, with increasing impatience and frustration. “Mean what?” he prodded intensely, standing with hands fisted at his side and looking ready to take a swing at one, or both, of them if they didn’t start to explain. “One of you had better tell me what you’re getting at and how it ties to this case, and Emma, before I lose my patience.”

Sighing, Killian stepped forward to face the police officer he had come to genuinely respect and hold in high esteem. He and Liam had not had an easy start in life, as boys and young men who had encountered many coppers, lawyers, and others in positions of power who were as selfish, cruel, and crooked as David was straight and true. It was a new thing to look at this man and know that he truly upheld the law in order to stand for and protect those who could not protect themselves.

Killian hated the picture taking shape in his mind from a mixture of long-buried reminiscence and unsolved cases, but he owed it to them to offer all the information he had. “I’ll explain, Mate,” he assured Nolan in a clipped, heavy tone, clasping his shoulder for a moment before dropping his hand again, “but brace yourself. I’ll wager it’s going to sound a preposterous tale.”

David nodded curtly, crossing his arms over his broad chest and widening his stance as if to tackle whatever Killian said head on. 

“Some years back, when I still worked under my brother in his diplomatic office, there were several suspicious deaths in a single fall and winter. All nameless victims, homeless, without any identification, anything to go on. The distinguishing factor tying them together was… the absence of a vital organ. There were also whispers - rumor and conjecture only, most thought - of an ambassador’s wife who dabbled in the occult and alchemy. Nothing concrete was ever found in order to charge her... but I met her, and the ambassador and their two grown daughters as well, at more than one political function when I was serving under Liam. It was not something which could be quantified, and shame on me, I did not pursue it. But she could freeze a man’s blood in his veins with a glance; there was truly something unnatural and unsettling about her - a Mrs. Cora Millsen, her name was. I kept my distance beyond a few necessary conversations. I could see she had intent to strike up an arrangement between myself and her younger daughter, Regine, and began to beg off engagements assisting Liam where the family would be in attendance. The ambassador himself, Henrik, was a pleasant fellow, honest and well-liked enough that most overlooked his peculiar family, as he was the one they had dealings with. I cannot say I made the connection until it began to prick my memory with this present case’s similarities, and its same lack of conclusive evidence. Perhaps most horrifying though was that the seemingly unsolvable wave of killings ceased when the Millsen family returned to their country, abruptly and suddenly after the fiancé young Regine did eventually choose, some young equestrian riding champion, died in their home.”

He took a moment to chance a look first at Graham’s stunned expression, the other man probably even remembering those unsolved cases which had continued to trouble his elder brother long after the book on them had been shut, and then to David Nolan’s face, a mask of stony silence. There was nothing for it but to finish what he knew of the sordid tale, so Jones drew a deep breath and plunged on. “Regine refused to go with her family. She came to Liam’s offices, raving about her mother killing her ‘beloved Daniel’. A report was drawn up, but her account was impossible, unbelievable. Nothing came of it. The young woman seemed clearly unhinged by grief and anger, almost deranged. Heaven help me, I was glad when Liam’s colleagues dismissed the charges. Obviously she was troubled and in need of help, but she made me every bit as unsettled as her mother Cora ever had.”

“And what happened to her after that?” David asked skeptically. “There was no more trouble?”

“After that?” Killian replied. “I do not know. She seemed to fade from public view… and I was relieved. I was happy to let her do so. I admit it.”

He looked to Graham then, and his friend took up the story when Killian paused. “It wasn’t always the heart - that was where those cases differed from ours currently. I remember the incidences you are speaking of Killian, but I failed to make the connection as well. One was missing lungs, another the kidneys, but there were two or three that were without the heart as well. The past case was kept within the offices of the embassy, largely because the only possible suspect known had immunity. Killian is correct. Something was not right about that woman; pushing her two daughters at any dignitaries who might gain them British citizenship and a finer, fancier life, but yet something cool and detached about her as well, as if all around were pawns to move on some chessboard only she could see. It was rumored she espoused the ridiculous popular idea in some circles at the time that perhaps Dr. Frankenstein was based on some real life doctor. Utter rubbish of course, no sane, self-respecting physician would…” This time Graham broke off in agitation, jerking fingers through his already disheveled hair and mumbling. “Simply not possible…” and “first do no harm” as he paced away from them.

“Anyway,” Killian intoned forcefully, determined to finish the story in short order. “The family’s official dossier attributed the woman with study of the occult and alchemy, as well as a rather accomplished knowledge of anatomy, botany, and medicine in her native land. But there was no motive, no evidence… well, unless you count the rather dramatic coincidence of the daughter’s suitor dropping dead of a heart attack in their parlor. Even that is not a crime in itself, however suspicious it looked that the family fled Britain back to Norway within hours of the incident, and that the bizarre killings then ceased.”

He could tell as he finished recounting the tale that David Nolan was fit to burst with numerous questions and arguments. Yet no words left the man’s mouth; instead it opened and closed mutely before he huffed and turned his back, gathering his composure. They were all quiet for a minute until David turned sharply, speaking in a voice that took command and snapped them into action. “None of that matters at present. What does matter is finding Emma and stopping this killer. Could your brother tell us if the Millsen family, or the wife at least, have returned? If so, we need to know where they’re staying, places they frequent…”

Killian nodded his assent, but it was Graham who spoke. “Liam has never really let that case go; he will no doubt still have documentation of any information that was unearthed, what little there was. Or, if nothing else, he will have kept tabs on the family.”

David sent him to call Liam and sighed, running a hand over his face as he looked once more to Killian. “Let’s hope your brother knows somewhere we can start. That tale of yours was far from comforting, and we need to be  _ doing _ something.”

“I completely agree,” Killian confirmed gruffly, hoping his face would not betray the panic stirring in his gut. They needed to find Emma Nolan sooner rather than later. He did not wish to contemplate the terrible possibility that not all of her would be in one piece to find.

~~~~~~~~~***

The dark-eyed femme fatale looked down upon the operating table she had modified for her research, hidden in the basement of the home she had let upon her return to London. Most did not even know that the sub-level existed, which was exactly how she needed it - locked away, where she could do her work without fear of discovery.

Her eyes were sharp, narrowing in dangerous concentration as she studied the unconscious form laid out before her on the flat surface, though there was not a mark marring her fair skin, the debilitating cloud of vapour had struck the pretty flowercart girl as hard as any physical blow. Throughout the transport to her lair and depositing her on the hard surface the blonde had not wakened or even stirred. Her long hair was fell around her, hanging off the edges of the worktop and making Emma Swan look all the more vulnerable for her bared neck and shoulders; uncovered, unveiled, in only her thin shift as protection against the darkness and cold creeping in all around her and the jagged knife her abductor wielded. 

Though the inspector’s younger sister - oh yes, she had done her research as well! - was merely the pawn in a sinister plan much deeper and more twisted than any had realized, the fiendish villainess had prepared for all contingencies. Waking up and beginning to fight would not free the lovely bait in her trap; it would only make the sacrifice more satisfying. She had already bound her prey to the table’s surface, at wrists and ankles and around her torso. She would not be making any sort of escape; even as she at last began to stir restlessly. 

  
Perversely pleased with herself, Regine Millsen, daughter of the once-ousted ambassadors, had used her ill-gotten powers, first learned at her cursed mother’s feet and then honed in hatred and bitterness to something even more potent in order to transport and incapacitate her victims. She had bided her time until she was strong enough, smart enough, and assured of her victory. She had searched until she found the very spell she needed - and all the ingredients but this last one. She had watched long enough to know that the infamous Holmes Jones, cool of head and hard of heart through tragedy’s tempering, cared for this saucy slip of a girl, and when he came to her rescue, she would at last have the armored heart she needed. She would resurrect her mother’s last sacrifice: the man she had loved and lost. Smirking sadistically as she hovered over the younger woman blearily surfacing to a wakefulness that would not be pleasant, Regine considered,  _ How did the poet Eliot put it - ‘pinned and wriggling’ ?  _ She nodded to herself; like a helpless fly in her web this one was. And finally she would have what she desired most - none could stop her now.


	6. Part Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at long last!! The final chapter!! Thank you so much to those who have been reading this since last fall and sticking with it despite how many times it takes me much longer than expected to update. I hope you will enjoy this last installment.

** _Part Six_ **

Blinking her way back into awareness was a difficult process when Emma Nolan sucked in a harsh, strangled breath as her eyes blearily opened, still clouded and unable to focus properly. A dark shadow leaned over her, someone in vaguely human shape; not one that she could recognize as male or female, but rather some sort of unknown threat. Instinct from years of self-protection kicked in and she tried to flinch away from an arm raised with a weapon. Yet, even as she moved to stretch a hand out in defense against the blow, to her horror, Emma realized in a flash of descending panic that her movements were brought up short by her being bound tightly to the surface on which she lay.

Gulping in a frightened rasp of air, she began to fight and wriggle more violently, to little avail; her breath coming with continued harshness as her heartbeat raced in anxiety. It felt as if the dark chamber she was in was closing around her, dwindling to only herself and the specter above her.

A low, sultry chuckle passed the stranger’s lips, her assailant leaning in close enough that Emma could at last make out a gleaming smile and painted lips, the abductor now obviously female. The voice which followed was silken, slithering over her skin like a menacing serpent. “Well, hello, Miss Nolan. Welcome to my workshop. This will be all the more entertaining with you awake to participate.” The deeply colored corners of that sinister expression turned up with evil satisfaction. One gloved hand stroked along the side of Emma’s trembling face, despite her determined attempt to remain still and stoic, not showing the true extent of her fear.

“So sweet,” the unknown woman cooed with false sympathy. “So needlessly lost. I do apologize, dear, but you were necessary to draw him out.”

It was then that Emma registered the sharp gleam of the blade in the woman’s other hand; the one which had been raised above her head when she first woke, but which had escaped her focus as she blearily tried to understand all that was happening. Her brow furrowed, unable to process what this woman could want, or how taking Emma would lure anyone else, even as her thoughts raced for a way to avert a painful and life-threatening blow.

Unfazed by Emma’s quickly whirling thoughts and inner turmoil, her tormentor shocked her once again. Instead of plunging the weapon into her chest as Emma had expected, the woman instead drew the knife sickeningly alone Emma’s collarbone and down her arm. A thin line of blood welled up in the wake of the cut, and Emma hissed through her teeth at the sting, in spite of her best efforts. She still pulled against her restraints, but it did little good; only seeming to bring her captor more enjoyment of the deadly game. The only comfort Emma could find within her predicament was that this witch seemed in no hurry to finish her off. The cuts the woman was making obviously hurt, but they wouldn’t kill her any time soon.

Her focus was stolen moments later as the blade sliced into the soft skin of her inner elbow, twisting cruelly and forcing a whimper from Emma’s tightly clenched mouth. She jerked her head away, refusing to watch the sadistic glee lighting those dark eyes looming over her, but a sharply manicured hand gripped her chin and turned her back to face her doom. “Ah, ah, ah, now pet, you can’t stop watching. We’ve almost reached the main event.”

As if on some unheard cue, the heavy wooden door across the basement room began to rattle and groan as something rammed against it; once, twice, a third time, with increasingly desperate force. “Hmm,” the shadowy figure mused. “Right on time.”

Suddenly, with an unearthly shattering and rending, the door burst from its hinges, wood splintering as it was caved in by three avenging forms charging through into her prison. With a howl of such raw emotion she wouldn’t have imagined him capable, Killian ‘Holmes’ Jones hurtled across the small, dank space in a flash, clearly intending to tackle to the ground the murderess holding her prisoner.

His charge was brought up short by the dagger suddenly poised directly over her heart and a coolly staying hand. “Not another step, Holmes,” that cultured voice ordered as calmly as if she were suggesting he sit down for tea. “Miss Nolan has served her purpose beautifully, but I can still cut out her heart if need be.”

_ Killian Jones… _ Emma’s breath stuttered again without her command at the anguished look on the gentleman detective’s face. He nodded his head grudgingly, wordlessly agreeing to this fiend’s demands and freezing in place. For the life of her, Emma couldn’t fathom why Jones cared so much, but he looked as if it might undo him should this woman drive her blade home. Beyond him, she could see David and Graham, both looking worried for her and at a loss; her brother practically vibrating with thwarted rage at the cuts which had already been made against her skin.

“You’ve made your point, Regine,” Killian spoke, his voice icily controlled, as he held the woman’s gaze. “What is it that you want? You have our attention; there’s no need to punish innocents further.” He gestured to Emma as he said so, not looking her way, struggling to seem as if she were just anyone to him, but his words were still a hissed threat. The implication was clear: Millsen would not get what she wanted if she killed the young woman under her raised knife.

Pursing her garish red lips in a sort of pout, Regine Millsen abandoned her hovering stance over Emma’s prone body. Seeming assured of the fact that Emma could not escape, Regine instead began to stalk toward ‘Holmes’ Jones with a sinister purr. “Really, you could be a bit less predictable,” she chided, as if playfully admonishing a willful lover. “You’re making this too easy with your honor and good form and such nonsense.”

As she spoke, seemingly focussing all her attention on Killian, Graham had stealthily attempted to creep around behind her toward Emma. Suddenly, Regine’s free hand shot out toward Watson, and he was thrown back against the stone wall with a single shout of surprise, a sickening thud of impact, and then silence. Shaking her head ‘no’, she arched a sculpted brow at David after, as if to question whether he wished to be next.

Eyes zeroing back on Killian’s in a flash, she questioned,“Now, Holmes, where were we? Oh yes… Are you ready to make a deal? If you’re so concerned for the innocent, I will allow you to stand in her place. It seems only fair.” She shrugged lightly as if it weren’t of much consequence, the gesture fooling no one, as he had been her true quarry all along. “You failed to care so much for the death of my sweet, blameless Daniel. Not such good form after all, hmm? Still your unconcern came back to me as the final piece needed to solve my puzzle after all this time.”

Though certain his horrifying theory had been correct, Killian still had nothing with which to fight against her, not while Emma Nolan’s life hung in the balance. Unable to do otherwise, Killian paused any movement, holding fast just where he was with hands raised in patient supplication. With a nod of acquiescence, he gritted begrudgingly, “Aye, you harpy, you know I’ve no other choice. What is it you wish me to do?”

Holding his breath, he waited for this dangerously unbalanced foe to move her blade away from Emma before he did anything else that might unsettle her. Managing to subvert his expectations once again, at his compliance, the sharp, edgy rage and unpredictability that had painted Regine Millsen’s face eased and she straightened regally, moving toward the detective with what would have almost seemed a seductive sway and a simpering expression of satisfaction on her face. “I knew you would see sense, Mr. Jones. You are billed after all as a man of reason.”

Killian did not respond to her attempt at flirtatious distraction; holding himself rigidly still, and only with strict self-control, managing not to shiver away from her questing fingers as they traced uninvited along his jawline, down to his collar and grazed along his upper chest. For the first time ever, he found himself cursing his predilection to leave his top few shirt buttons undone; he wanted no part of this vicious creature’s touch lingering upon his skin. Clenching his teeth, he tried to focus on the fact that under different circumstances he could have heard Emma laughing at him in such a predicament, shaking her head with exasperated mirth and telling him it served him right if he left half his chest on display; some poor woman would have to touch it.

The thought of Miss Nolan in happier times immediately sent his gaze searching for hers over their foe’s shoulder. Even pinned down as she was, he could see that since her attacker’s focus was no longer solely on the younger woman, Emma was already wriggling and working at loosening her bindings and freeing herself from Regine’s knots of rope. The pickpocketing skills she’d honed for a lifetime - her natural deft touch, slim build, and sleight of hand - might just save them now if they were lucky and he could buy her a bit more time not under Millsen’s rapt observation.

Without further hesitation, Killian resolved to do just that, gritting his teeth against the snide comeback burning on his tongue and forcing himself not to enrage the woman, he continued to hold himself still rather than pulling back or pushing her away. Despite the disturbing feeling of Regine Millsen’s sharply pointed nails and chilled hand slipping inside his shirt front and mapping the planes of his chest in a possessive way that caused bile to rise in his throat - he would much prefer the intrusion than for her to go back to gouging and slicing at Emma Nolan’s pale and flawless skin.

It almost seemed as though Emma could read what was going on in his mind. Even if he would once have labeled her as little more than a nuisance and thorn in his side - pretty, but a dishonest thief and an annoying distraction - he was quickly coming to realize that few people had ever as quickly seemed to understand his meaning, his thought process, and incisively glimpse right behind the protective veneer of cool detachment he wore like a mask, as this wisp of a woman had done at first meeting. It was the pocketwatch she had nicked, but those small, graceful hands reached inside him much further than that. If he were as given to the romantic bent as he had once foolishly been, he might have claimed she had pulled his heart out clutched in her sticky fingers as well.

A particularly unfortunate exaggeration to make in their current situation, he chided himself, snapping back to reality as the murderess before him finally removed her unbidden touch from his chest, and stood back to face him squarely, gauging whether or not she had his full attention. He needed to stop dwelling on more pleasant moments and focus on his opponent. Yes, he could physically overpower her in a fair fight, but he didn’t know what this woman’s next move might be, nor what sort of occult power she might throw at them next. He couldn’t risk trying to simply cuff her or disarm her until he was sure of the advantage - the opportune moment. If he failed, any of his compatriots, and most likely Emma, might well pay the price with him. Thankfully, he could see that Emma was making progress - one arm was moving much more freely than it had been, and with a couple more minutes unseen, she would hopefully free herself. He was banking on it, as he might or might not be able to provide much more than distraction if those few minutes went as he was beginning to suspect they would.

“Well, now we come to it at last,” he spoke up, forcing his voice to a low, smooth rumble and purposefully returning Regine Millsen’s blatant stare with his own, making certain he had her undivided attention while he noted a flash of gold over her head. Emma had her hands free and was working on the knot at her stomach. It might hurt, but if he could prolong this just a little longer… If the others were free to run when need be and he could still get Millsen in his grasp…

All he said was, “You have me right where you wanted, don’t you?”

“That depends,” Regine purred back with a sinister quirk of her brow. “You know why you are here, and what I desire? And you mean to cooperate?”

Holmes gave her a condescending smile. “Possibly,” he shrugged, “if you answer a question for me first. If you admit what all of this has been about. Why hearts? What can you possibly hope to accomplish with a person’s heart cut from the body?”

“Why resurrection, of course,” she replied, as if it were as sensible and normal as any sane rationale. “You must have heard the theory… the possibility of reanimation… a man as well-read and learned as you. I have come so close to success so many times, and now the missing piece is right within my grasp; the single reason why each time before has failed. I needed the exact heart strong enough to withstand the procedure with enough armour to shield it until it can bring my Daniel back to me.”

Killian tilted his head, knowing he needed to keep her talking just a few moments longer. He could see Emma frantically working at the knots holding her ankles now; heard Graham stirring back into wakefulness over against the wall where he had landed and knew David could help him. Only a few more seconds, just a couple steps closer and he could reach her, hopefully grab Millsen and stop her, before she could retaliate. He attempted a look of curiosity as he asked, “And it’s mine? What made my heart so special? How did you even know?”

Shaking her head and clicking her tongue with a sort of feigned disappointment, Regine gave him a questioning eye. “Really now, Holmes. I’d think you might have that answer worked out for yourself. After I had made attempts with, shall we call them less-than-suitable donors, it became clear that only the most resilient of hearts, organs which could withstand pain, undergo trauma, and carry on beating, could possibly handle what the feat of reanimation requires. Once that was clear, I remembered our previous meetings long ago - the passion and depth in your eyes, though clearly guarded and walled for strength against easy temptations - even against a match as fine as I was then. At the time, true, I was offended. But now, I can only be grateful. I did not forget such reserve and discipline, and it was easy to learn it had only carried on and grown in your daily life and distinctions over the intervening years.”

Killian nodded sagely, as if truly taking her reasoning under consideration. Then he queried, “And I suppose I should simply submit to being the catalyst for such a remarkable event, regardless of the personal cost?” He couldn’t help a small amount of his contempt for her plan at last leaking through his voice. It was preposterous! The sheer arrogance of her presumption! How could she possibly imagine it would go? Would anyone offer oneself up gladly? But then he thought of the scene he had burst into moments before. If it stayed her hand from shedding Emma’s lifesblood - or that of anyone he cared for - then he admitted that he would submit to the woman’s most insane demand.

Luckily, he could see that Emma was even at that moment finally free of her restraints and climbing down from the worktop upon which she had been laid.. The pretty blonde - whom he might as well admit had captured his attention as no other in years - leaned against the table’s edge, looking a bit woozy and off-balance for a moment, either from loss of blood or whatever Millsen had used to knock her out, but then she straightened, eyes meeting his quickly and hardening with determination.

Now was the moment. Emma was on her feet and free to run; he simply had to hope, trusting the capabilities of the two men behind him to have each other’s backs. He only needed a moment to arrest the strike he was certain Regine Millsen would make with the blade still in her hand, to catch her while she was focused on removing his heart, rather than her seemingly magical abilities to fend off capture. Meeting the occultist’s hungry gaze, he finally blew out a short breath through his nose, hoping he looked sufficiently resigned, as if bowing to his choice and the sacrifice he faced. “Very well,” he acknowledged. “You obviously know I cannot save my own skin and allow you to stalk others if it is within my power to stop it. If I have your word that Miss Nolan goes free, that this is the end of your murderous reign, then do what you will.”

She smiled, dipping her chin slightly to affirm her agreement. “Of course, Holmes. You have my word. Once I gain this heart of yours, my work will finally be complete. I’ll have no need of any more.”

Muscles tensed, every fiber of his being at the ready to lunge forward and grab her as she prepared to strike the final blow to his chest, Killian’s focus narrowed. There was no margin for distraction or error. Regine Millsen’s arm raised in triumph; her deluded assumption that he was giving himself over to simply stand as his heart was carved from his body lending a crazed fervor to her actions, disregarding caution in her avarice and the nearness of her goal. 

The villainess swept forward, knife’s edge bared, and Killian crouched as she was in motion, raising his hands to capture her wrists once it was too late for her to pull back. Then, suddenly, a scream of rage and fear rang throughout the chamber and bounced off the stone walls. Regine’s form collided with his own, but with far more weight and force than her slight body should have carried. Both of them were borne to the ground; Killian’s head striking against the cement floor hard enough for his vision to swim and the solid mass of more than just the witch he had expected pressing down upon him.

He groaned involuntarily, trying to keep his vision clear to subdue their murderess while she was also stunned. Unfortunately, the blow to his skull was sharply compounded by a ragged, burning fire that flared along his side. Agony shot through him, realizing that the knife must have been caught between himself and Millsen in their fall, and though not dissecting his heart, it was still carving a painful line across his torso.

Regine had not moved, but suddenly Emma peeked over her abductor’s motionless shoulder. A heavy metal object he couldn’t identify was clutched in her trembling hand, and Killian was just aware enough to understand that she must have used it to render Millsen insensate as she had plowed into the other woman - saving herself and him too. Well, maybe, if only he weren’t so disoriented… “Emma?” he questioned, tongue seeming thick and too unwieldy to speak properly.

“Jones?” she replied, eyes shining widely with fear and concern. “Are you…?” Those intriguing eyes widened as she took him in, her chin wobbling only a second before she turned to cry out her brother’s name urgently.

Holmes suddenly felt highly unconcerned with everything but her face so near his own. “You - you saved me,” he managed to state awkwardly as he attempted to touch her face. His fingers couldn’t reach their goal, and his hand fell back to the floor, stained with blood.

“Just take it easy, Jones,” she murmured, threading her small delicate fingers with his own, despite the sticky residue. He grinned at her with a giddiness that was almost loopy, prompting a watery smile in response that wheeled alarmingly in his vision. “What can I say?” she added. “It seemed like the honorable thing to do.”

But her voice and all the other noise and movement in that strange, cavernous cellar was already fading away, growing softer and smaller, as if gaining distance from him - until there was nothing there at all.

~~~~~~~~~***

_ Two Weeks Later… _

Upon leaving his London flat, Killian ‘Holmes’ Jones drew in a grateful breath of the crisp morning air, more than past his fill of Graham Watson and his physician’s orders to stay abed until the knife wound in his side was fully healed and his blood loss recouped - to say nothing of the fussing and smothering he had endured from Liam in the past fortnight. He would not have expected it from the man, but his elder brother was as overprotective as a crochety nursemaid since his injury, barely leaving Killian alone long enough to feed and dress himself, and rushing headlong back into his chambers if Killian so much as let a hiss of discomfort escape.

He could admit to himself, since he had finally been allowed to leave the house for a short walk in the fresh air, alone and under his own steam, as he had been promising he was capable for some days, that the wound where Regine Millsen’s blade had sunk into his flesh was indeed still tender. He held himself gingerly as he reached the bottom step and moved out onto the busy sidewalk. All the same, he was not about to let on to another soul. In fact, he would not in the least be surprised if he were to turn round and look up to find his sibling and Watson peeking out through the window curtains and keeping an eye on him. He would not even put it past them, after the well-intentioned but ridiculous mollycoddling he had endured, to find Nolan waiting for him at the corner, a police escort to see him home safely at the end of his stroll.

Still, as he found his natural gait and started down the familiar street, Killian knew despite his irritation, that they were only so anxious because they cared. He had looked to be in dire straits there for a moment on the floor of that vault. His head had struck the floor with enough force to bring on concussion, and once he had passed out, he had been utterly unresponsive to all their pleas. Added to the fact that the blood spilling from his side had been hard to stem at first, and he knew he had given them all quite a turn. And Emma, well…

Miss Nolan had been the only one who had not visited him in the hospital, or at his home afterward as he convalesced. She had sent a handsome bottle of rum with a note expressing her sincerest thanks for his chivalrous rescue, along with the cheeky reassurance that she had indeed paid for the fine liquor. He could just see the sparkle in those bright green eyes, and her challenging smirk as he imagined her teasing him with the words aloud. All the same, he wished to see her alive and well, and no worse for wear, with his own two eyes, regardless of his belief in her brother’s assurances. 

Upon pressing David Nolan further, the inspector had admitted reluctantly, with eyes downcast, that Emma blamed herself. Apparently she thought that he wouldn’t have been so badly hurt if she hadn’t tried to help take Millsen down. The very idea made a fissure split through the ancient and already weakening protection around his heart. It had been nothing of the sort. His own plan had been last ditch and slipshod at best, and that she would have thrown herself back into harm’s way to come to his aid, after what she had already been through, meant more to him than he could adequately express or comprehend. He would never begin to blame her for the effort.

If he could just tell her that!

Therefore, as he turned the corner and walked on toward the nearby park, Killian felt a smile break across his weary face at the sight up ahead. The brightly colored pushcart full of carnations, asters, lilies, and all variety of cheerful blooms was wonderfully familiar, and as he tried to pick up his pace, he could only hope that its lovely proprietress would be there as well.

When Emma Nolan’s bright golden hair caught the sunlight as he drew near, Killian knew his pleased grin must have stretched wide enough to make him look quite the fool - and he could not find it within himself to care. Her back was still turned to him while she counted out change for a customer, wishing them enjoyment of the daisy bouquet they had purchased. Her trim figure stood straight-backed and proud, as strong and confident, alert and ready for action, as she had proven herself to be time and again. The swelling in his chest as he neared her side and reached out to gain her attention told Killian he had missed her more than he would have ever thought possible.

Once her customer had moved on, Killian tapped Emma’s shoulder lightly, holding his breath in nervous anticipation as she turned his way. Her beguiling gaze met his the moment she did so, green pupils widening in surprise before quickly falling to her hands as they fluttered nervously over the blossoms before her, anything to avoid his concerned and all-too-knowing stare.

“Emma,” he breathed, his voice hushed and raspy, overcome at seeing her there before him again. Her obvious anxiety and the pained guilt in her bearing tore at him. Even if she did not return the deeper feelings he could no longer deny, Holmes was glad he had come looking for her. He could not bear for Emma to go on blaming herself.

“Please, Lass, look at me,” he begged softly, reaching shaky fingers out to touch her chin and tilt her face back up to meet his own.

Shaking her head abruptly, the jade of her irises welled with unshed tears and she tried to pull away, but Killian persisted, needing her to see his sincerity. “You’re so bloody brilliant, Emma Nolan,” he hastened on before she could stop him. “Truly. Do you not even realize how rare the person who could have kept their wits about them in that dungeon? You were drugged, injured, and still you managed to free yourself and think of another as well. Yet, you haven’t given me a chance to thank you.”

He tried to take her hand, to press it in gratitude, but Emma resisted, spluttering in disbelief. “Thank me?! Are you mad, Jones? It’s because of me that - ” 

“No, not another word of blame, Darling,” he interjected firmly, intent on seeing her let that burden go. “The way I see it, you stopped our foe and saved my life. I’ll not hear any talk against your actions.”

Deflating, Emma shook her head in fond exasperation, knowing it wasn’t worth arguing further. His mind was set, and she honestly felt nothing but relief. No longer than she had known him, and as mad as he had made her when they met, the image of him splayed across that cold stone, his blood pooling beneath him, had refused to leave her mind, haunting her night and day, and repeating cruelly that if they had lost him, it would have been her fault. Biting her lower lip sharply to keep uncharacteristically emotional tears from pouring out, she pulled Jones to her finally, embracing him tightly with all the emotion she had tried to hide. 

When she stood back to right herself, Emma offered the infuriatingly handsome detective a hopeful smile. “Thank you, Jones…  _ Killian _ ,” she whispered. “I can’t say how glad I am that you’re alright.”

He flushed a telling pink under the scruff on his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears at her words. Dipping his head at her show of affection, Killian prepared to leave her to her work. With a wink, he spoke once more before departing, a hint of his previous charm in the words. “Until we meet again, Miss Nolan,” he bowed and turned to go.

“Soon, I hope,” she answered knowingly. A grin was already crossing her face as he stopped abruptly, hand freezing while he felt curiously in his waistcoat pocket. Pulling an object from it, Jones turned to her with his pilfered watch in hand.

“How did you - ?” he began to ask.

Emma only gave him a mischievous wink of her own, a woman needed a few secrets after all. Shrugging playfully, she offered in a tease, “I think you've earned it.”


End file.
